Awake My Soul
by BrittFaceNess
Summary: John has a hard time believing Sherlock is really back after the fall. He attempts to accept this fact by experimenting, using the five senses: Hearing, Sight, Smell, Touch, Taste/Post-Reichenbach/JohnxSherlock/T for language, I guess.
1. Hearing

**AN: **A post-Reichenbach fic~ John has a hard time believing Sherlock is really back. So he tries to accept this by going through the list of his five senses: Hearing, Sight, Smell, Touch, and Taste. So far, I've categorized this fic into five chapters, dedicating each chapter to one sense. John's POV.

A free cupcake to anyone who guesses the song I named this fic after ;)

**Warnings: **Spoilers to Sherlock Series 2 (_obviously_), John/Sherlock pairing, and a few curse words scattered here and there.

**Disclaimer: **Until Gatiss and Moffat magically give me the title to Sherlock, I do not own anything.

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><p>.oOo.<p>

"_It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

_In that moment, it had felt as though time itself had completely halted. Initially, a million things were racing through my mind in that one second when I heard the consulting detective murmur a goodbye into my ear through the cellphone receiver and whisper my name for the last time. _

_That unique and gorgeous name of his had ripped through my throat but it made no difference at all. His arms spread eagle, my best friend fell from the hospital rooftop and I watched in complete horror and shock as the silhouette fell. _

_Time had betrayed me as my gaze travelled downwards with the fast-falling body. But one thought, one strong thought had coursed through my veins. I could not erase that particular thought and to this very day I still cannot._

_I couldn't save him this time._

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><p>A sharp and shrill note rang through the flat, jerking John Watson out of his deep sleep and instantly setting his army-trained nerves on hyper alert. Images and sounds from his nightmare still haunted the doctor's vision and hearing as he forced his body out of the warm bed.<p>

"_I will burn the __**heart **__out of you."_

With a quick shake of his head, John willed Moriarty's voice away. Now wasn't the time to dwell on those thoughts – someone was in the flat. By chance, Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson could have let themselves in without their usual shout of greeting. But no, this felt different. Mycroft usually sat in the common room in utter silence until John's waking, and Mrs. Hudson always bustled into his room, opening the window and muttering complaints on how dusty it was or such. Not this time though.

John slid his hand under one of the pillows lying on his bed. Fingers curled around the cold gun placed there and he quickly flipped off the safety button. However, before John could even reach his own door to the hallway landing, another note filled 221B – this time more tuned and peaceful.

But the doctor was anything but peaceful. It was a violin; he realized then – not a scream or shriek like he had thought it had been. A couple of more notes were played. John felt his heart constrict. Who was playing a violin (no, _the _violin – _his_ violin) this early in the morning? A quick glance out the window confirmed John of the time, and his eyes landed on the clock beside his bed. 4:00 AM.

A melody drifted up the staircase to John's door and it took all of his strength to not collapse on the floor right then and there. Only one person he knew played the instrument that skillfully.

_But he's gone._

So who was now down the stairs, plucking experimentally on the strings as if to test and warm them up? Who dared take the precious violin down from its place on the wall where it had been for the past three years?

As John quietly stepped out of his room and into the hall, he mulled over a couple of thoughts. One explanation: he could still be dreaming. No, certainly not. He knew the difference between his dreams and real life – and given the fact that only nightmares filled his sleep for the past thirty-six months only gave him more proof. He was not dreaming. Another explanation: _he _was alive, healthy, and in the flat of 221B playing _his_ own violin. If not for the current situation, John might have laughed at the absurdity of the thought.

Taking the steps cautiously, John made his way down. His hands were steady as they held the gun, and other than a drop of sweat sliding down his temple - there was no indication that the ex-army doctor was frightened. But John's heart continued to beat furiously inside his chest, so hard in fact that he thought maybe it would suddenly burst at the slightest sound.

He was met with the darkness of the flat once reaching the final step. John swallowed the thick lump that had formed in his throat and his eyes skittered about the room and to the doorways.

"Who-" His voice cracked and John cleared his throat. It sounded extremely loud in the now-silent flat. "Who's there?"

When no response came, the doctor inched his way towards the light switch, his fingers scrambling over the wall. Light filled the room.

John then realized he had been holding his breath; he had also been hoping beyond hope that he would find that blasted consulting detective seated upon the couch, maybe. Or perched by the window, violin in hand. Or maybe even just standing there awkwardly.

Tears pooled his blue eyes as he stared at the empty room, no sign of another human being present. John did not bother to wipe them away. No, he let them flow freely, and they splashed on his night shirt one after another.

Of course _he_ was not there – _he_ was not coming back. He couldn't, come back. He was dead, wasn't he? John squeezed his eyes shut. He would always believe in the man, always. There was absolutely no way John would accept the last words the detective had told him. But the doctor had watched as his best friend fell from that rooftop, and anyone could tell you that one could not survive a fall like that.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and took a rather deep breath, sucking in oxygen to clear his clouded mind. "Stop this…just stop it now…" he whispered. Whether he was aiming the words at himself or that man, he did not know. Maybe both.

"John."

A yell erupted from his own throat and John instinctively whirled around, gun held by both hands, and pointing at the source of the voice that had come from behind. A finger on the trigger, breathing steady now-

"John." The voice soothed.

And as quickly as it had come, John could feel his breath _whoosh_ right back out of his lungs.

Before him, quite alive, was Sherlock Holmes. _Sherlock fucking Holmes. _The faint light from the kitchen behind slightly illuminated his features. His hair was a little shorter, though not by much, and the pale green eyes that had haunted him were steady and cautious. Long, pale hands were held up in front of him as if to calm the frightened and shaken doctor. "John, put the gun down."

John's eyes raked over the man in front of him, ignoring the request. His mind raced along with his heart. Just the sound of his voice unraveled his entire being; it completely ruined John. It always had. He could feel the gun being gently tugged from his grasp.

"John."

"Sh…" John swallowed. "Shut up…" He saw Sherlock wince a little, eyebrows drawn in as if thinking hard, but he obeyed anyways. Silence quickly loomed over the two men. After finally finding the ability to speak, John did so. "You're alive."

Instead of voicing his response, Sherlock merely nodded.

John gave a sharp shake of his head. "No…" his voice was barely a whisper. "No, say it…" He needed to hear the words from another person rather than himself.

Sherlock met his eyes then, and John felt a rush of relief and warmth spread throughout his body at that moment. The next two words that escaped from Sherlock's lips were the last he heard before blackness shrouded his vision and the sensation of falling took over his entire body.

"_I'm alive."_

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><p><em><strong><strong>_**So? Yay? or Nay?**

**Review if convenient, if not convenient review anyways~**


	2. Sight

**AN:** Thanks everyone for all the reviews and alerts! I was utterly surprised, I'm so chuffed!

So here's the second chapter, Sight. I hope you like it and I also hope not to disappoint!

Enjoy.

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><p>.oOo.<p>

"_No. Alright, stop it now." I argued, starting to make my way towards the entrance to the hospital building. The voice in my ear though halted my steps immediately._

"_No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." _

"_Alright…" I held out my hand as if to stop him; maybe stall him for a few moments. Until what, though? I did not know. Maybe, just maybe I could talk him out of this nonsense? _

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me!" he said with his hand outstretched towards my own. "Please, will you do this for me?"_

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><p>It had been precisely three hours since John had awoken from his unconscious state on the hard floor of 221B's common room area, and ever since then his eyes had never left Sherlock. The doctor refused to break the connection to the man across the room, fearing that if he did so that maybe Sherlock would drift away and disappear from his life once more. John knew that he wouldn't be able to deal with that again.<p>

A mug was held firmly between his two hands, the tea now on the verge of cold instead of hot like it had been when the consulting detective had handed it to him. When had he given it to him? Two hours ago?

They hadn't talked much, not really; John was still trying to accept that Sherlock was really alive and in their flat at the moment. The other man had tried to explain a couple of times, but John simply gave a quick shake of his head to shush him. No, now wasn't the time for talking. Talking would come later.

For now all the doctor wanted to do was keep his eyes fixed on his best friend.

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?"_

John forced down the slight tremor in his hands. What if all of this was just a hallucination? What if his eyes were betraying him like they had a couple of times (more than a couple times, but John would never admit that, even to himself) before for the past three years?

"John?"

The man in question looked up to see the consulting detective in front of him, hands planted on his hips and giving him _that _look. John knew Sherlock was analyzing every single detail while the pale eyes raked over his body and face. It was unnerving and…familiar. A slight shudder coursed through his body.

Finally Sherlock's eyes met John's and he drew his eyebrows together in deep thought. "You think I'm a hallucination."

It wasn't a question, John realized. He was stating it as a solid fact.

A sigh escaped from John's lips and before he knew it, the couch sunk in beside him. Sherlock sat next to him awkwardly, body facing the other's, legs pulled up to his chest. John couldn't help but to smile a little at that.

Gaining some confidence by the slight smile from John, Sherlock straightened. "John-"

John marveled at how often the raven-haired man next to him had muttered his name in the past three hours. It was always tinged with a slight sadness, worry, or confusion and John now wondered how hard it was for Sherlock at the moment – dealing with these emotions and such upon returning.

Sherlock's words went over his head, slightly muffled, while John just focused intently on that face in front of his. Light shadows lay beneath his eyes, and he just now noticed the faint stubble along his jaw. John had never taken into consideration that maybe Sherlock would have been affected by all of this also. The thought made his heart constrict suddenly. The past three years had been difficult for both of them, he guessed.

"John?"

There he went with the name again.

"Are you even listening to me?" Sherlock set his mouth into a thin line, annoyance flashing across his features. "I would think that coming back after three years you would be clinging to every word I've spoken."

A giggle bubbled from the doctor's mouth and he watched Sherlock's face soften at that.

"Well that's a first." John said as another laugh piled over the first.

"Hm?"

"You trying to talk to me while I just watch and study you."

Sherlock's mouth tugged into a smile. "Yes, I suppose so…"

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><p>Things had changed, of course, and it was awkward for the first few days. It was expected, but John wondered when their daily routine would set back in place like it had before. He knew it was silly to hope for this – nothing would ever be the same again.<p>

John didn't sleep in his room for the first week. In fact, John hadn't slept the first two days. Sherlock didn't seem to notice this until the doctor started nodding off one evening in his armchair, head bent uncomfortably to the side. The detective had put a hand on his shoulder and told him to go sleep in his bed.

"No, I'm fine. I'm not tired." John had protested, clearing his throat and sitting up with all his strength.

"John, I'm not leaving."

John's throat tightened as Sherlock squeezed his shoulder lightly, embarrassment flushing his face. "I wasn't…erm…"

The conversation quickly came to silence as the army doctor stared at the window, choosing to not answer the detective nor give any heed to the urge to sleep. Rain pitter-pattered against the dark glass and droplets scurried downwards. The hand never left its place on his shoulder.

John tried again and heat crept up his neck as he spoke. "I just need to see your face." It was a whisper, but by the surprised and awkward look on the detective's face, he knew Sherlock had heard the words perfectly.

After much arguing, protesting, and urges, John had finally been forced to sleep in his bed that night. When falling under a deep and troubled sleep though, the doctor had woken up only hours later covered in a light sheen of sweat, sheets and blankets tangled about his body, yelling out the consulting detective's name before he could stop himself from doing so.

With quick but careful movements, Sherlock had entered his room in a flourish. "John? What's wrong?" He moved to the window in search of an intruder, and even proceeded to slightly open it.

John stayed completely silent though, and with dread he could hear the whir and clicks in Sherlock's head as he pieced it together. This was quite embarrassing.

John cleared his throat loudly. "Erm…n-nothing. Sorry."

"Was it a nightmare?" the other asked quickly.

"I'm used to it, Sherlock. Really, I'm fine." John had meant for those words to soothe and calm down the detective, but in the faint light from the hallway he saw emotion flash across Sherlock's features. Guilt, perhaps? Sherlock looked stricken and awkward as he stood there not quite knowing what to do.

Finally, after several minutes and what looked like some intense thought, Sherlock made his way over to John's bed and perched himself on it, squarely in the middle by John's hip. "I have heard that one's presence nearby calms another of nightmares or such." He simply stated with his eyes fixated on the wall. John stared at Sherlock with a growing fondness.

For the first time in three years, the doctor slept through the entire night in peace.

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><p><strong>TBC<strong>

****Review if convenient, if not convenient review anyways~****


	3. Smell

**AN: **Hello again to all my lovely readers! Thanks for the reviews, they really do keep my going. I wanted to contemplate this chapter and really plan it out before publishing it. I'm glad I did - I despise rushed chapters. They just don't feel completed to me.

So here are you are!

To those who are wondering about the Romance part - that is soon to come.

And on that note, a fair warning to those of you who may not be interested in Johnlock. I do thread that into my fics.

And again, thank you all! I shall shut up now and let you read!

Enjoy.

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><p>.oOo.<p>

"_I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through please." The words were forced from my lips and I barely took into account that they were slurred, toppling over one another._

_Sherlock. Sherlock. God, no._

_The smell of blood and rain overwhelmed my sense of smell, causing my stomach to churn even more along with the sight of it. Crimson stained the beautiful, pale face. It mixed with the rain on the cement, pooling around the man's now-soaked through hair._

"_Jesus, no. God, no." I pressed my lips together and sank back while arms supported me. God, no. Sherlock-_

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><p>Out of all of his senses, John's sense of smell was the one that had been affected most by the war in Afghanistan. The gun and fire smoke, the dirt and grime, the sweat, and the blood – it never really left him. The ex-army doctor calculated smells like Sherlock calculated coffee stains on a man's collar or dust on his left shoe. John never could forget smells.<p>

Ever since that horrid day, that heart-stopping moment, John was haunted by the strong smell of rain. It woke him from fitful dreams as thunder rolled outside, and it kept him up late at nights up until the early mornings. The rain brought on memory flashbacks – Sherlock's face dripping in blood, the red mixture on the sidewalk, and such.

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><p>Now John sat in his favorite chair, hands tightening around the mug of tea settled in between them. He was determined not to let it go cold this time.<p>

The consulting detective sat across from him, perched in his own chair with eyes fixed upon the doctor in what looked like concern.

Rain pattered against the flat's windows softly, and the grey clouds outside dimmed the morning light. John forced another gulp of tea down.

"When are you going to tell the others?" he asked tentatively. It would be interesting to see their expressions. When Sherlock did not respond, however, this caused John to raise a brow in question. "Sherlock?"

"The ones in need of the knowledge already know the details of this matter." The other man said with a mere roll of his shoulders.

"They…so, they knew before I did?" John felt a pang of hurt. "How long?"

Sherlock avoided his gaze. "It does not matter, John-"

"Of course it matters!" his voice raised an octave. "_How long_?"

"Three months."

When Sherlock refused to explain or add any other detail to this confession, John carefully set his mug down and stood up. "You didn't think to – oh I don't know, _tell me_?"

John knew he shouldn't be mad at his best friend – especially when he had been back for only a week. But this was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. He felt betrayed, but most of all he felt…hurt. Did John not matter enough? Had it not crossed this brilliant man's mind that he needed to be informed of this?

"John, you have to understand-"

John shook his head to cut off whatever the detective was going to say. Sherlock was sitting there so calmly, with his fingertips pressed together in front of those lips. He looked so calm and it only angered John even more. Did he not know how serious this was?

"I thought _you were dead_. Don't _ever_ tell me it doesn't matter. _Ever_. You can be such an idiot!" John snapped harshly.

John was expecting a smart reply, or maybe a scoff and a roll of those gorgeous green eyes. But instead he was met with a rush of air as Sherlock brushed past him, knocking against his shoulder in the process, and then the slam of the front door filled his ears.

The smell of Sherlock lingered for a moment and John closed his eyes. The familiar scent of him clouded his mind – it was like a whiff of old book pages with a tint of mint and something the doctor guessed as disinfectant that was most likely gained from the hospital morgue and maybe from his own experiments.

And then it suddenly vanished in the eerily silent flat.

John inhaled deeply and exhaled very slowly the way his psychiatrist had taught him. He opened his eyes and swallowed the thick lump forming in his throat. With a quick scan of the room, John realized Sherlock had taken his coat and scarf. No trace of him was left.

Panic rose in his chest but he tried with all his might to force it away. Fumbling in his pockets, the doctor pulled out his cellphone.

_**You're being childish. Come back. –JW**_

After a full five minutes and with no reply, John licked his lips nervously.

_**Come back now. Or I'll call your brother. –JW**_

Ten minutes ticked by and the panic was not dissipating.

_**Come back, please. –JW**_

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><p>The rain was starting to pour harder outside and John stared blankly at the windows. It was dark now – it had been for a few hours. With a glance at his watch, the doctor was informed that another hour had gone by without him noticing. It was 2 AM. Sherlock had been gone for exactly eighteen hours and no text had been received.<p>

To say that John was uneasy was quite an understatement – he was panicking now. Sherlock was gone.

The words made his chest tighten even more and he ran a hand across his face. What if he didn't come back? No, of course he would come back. The detective was just being melodramatic. But what if he wasn't – what if he really was gone? No, of course he wasn't. He wasn't gone. He would come back. He had to.

Thundered pounded against the skies and caused John to give a startled jump and snapping him from his deep thoughts. He could smell rain now – it seeped through the small cracks of the flat and drifted around him.

"_He's my friend, let me come through. Please."_

John shook his head. Now wasn't the time to remember those moments – it didn't matter. Sherlock was very much alive and healthy. Wasn't he?

"_Jesus, no. God, no._"

Is this was hyperventilating felt like? Was this what one would call a panic attack?

_**I'm sorry. Just come back. Now. –JW**_

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><p>Upon his return, the consulting detective would enter the silent and dark flat and start to make his way towards the kitchen. He would then notice with a flicker of his gaze that the door to his own room was slightly ajar. And walking through the doorway, the detective's eyes would fall upon the curled form in his bed. John's nose would be buried deep in the pillows and a light snore would reach the other man's ears. After a couple seconds of contemplation, he would then realize John had needed to be surrounded by his best friend's scent. Guilt would then wash over the detective as he watched the sleeping man in front of him.<p>

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><p><strong>TBC<strong>

******Review if convenient, if not convenient review anyways~******

(please, please, please?)


	4. Touch

**A/N: **You have no idea how much I loved writing this chapter. It was a bit hard at first, but then it flowed smoothly from my fingertips.

I am _extremely _grateful for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites. It makes me giggle in giddiness every time I get an email notifying me of this.

So here you are!

If you've been following along, you know that the next chapter will be quite interesting and fun ;)

Enjoy!

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><p>.oOo.<p>

_Hands tried to grab at mine as I struggled to find a beating pulse in my best friend's wrist. It had to be there, something had to be there. Maybe I was pressing in the wrong place? I moved my fingers to a different vein but no luck. There was no rushing blood beneath the pale skin, no sign of life. Dread filled my entire body when I realized the truth. My brain told me the facts, but my heart refused to accept the conclusion it had come to._

_My grip loosened as they tugged me away, pulling me from Sherlock Holmes. The still-warm wrist slipped from my grasp before I could think twice about it._

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><p>Today marked the day of Week Two since Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead. This said man was currently working on a case that had been given to him yesterday, and was perched on the stool in the kitchen with all focus on the microscope placed in front of him. Two days ago the detective had dragged out all of the boxes from his room that John had stacked neatly in his closet, and unpacked all the equipment with mutters and mumbles of <em>'At least you didn't throw my things away'<em> and _'John, why did you use so much tape on this one'_.

Things were different, that was for sure. Ever since John had woken up that morning in Sherlock's bed with the detective not even a foot away intently watching him, their actions towards each other were a bit more relaxed. Sherlock would sometimes make a hot cuppa for John and the doctor would catch his own self staring at his best friend for a moment too long.

Their schedule was about the same though. John would wake up and do his usual morning routine, he would get called to the hospital just to get called back to the flat by Sherlock, and they would spend the rest of the day running around London or cooped up in Bart's Hospital.

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><p>It was impossible for John to have feelings for Sherlock Holmes. Yes, he cared about the man. And yes, he would even go as far as to risk his own life every single day for the man. But love? Love was quite a strong word and John rarely ever used it in the sense of women, let alone men, and let alone <em>the <em>Sherlock Holmes. No, John was thoroughly convinced the feelings he had for this man had nothing to do with love. Perhaps it was just a strong friendship. Or perhaps like brothers. But definitely not love.

John's eyes trailed over the sleeping man's face in front of him. Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch finally after staying awake for four days straight with barely any food in his system.

The black curls fell across his forehead perfectly as if placed there on purpose, and the lips that were either constantly moving or pursed deep in thought, were now slack and open slightly.

Why was he watching his best friend sleep? John had no idea, but the image was so peaceful and calm that he couldn't find any will to turn his gaze from such a scene. For a fleeting moment, the doctor wondered what Sherlock's pale, milky skin would feel like beneath his touch, but then he shook the thought from his head with a flush rising in his cheeks. Similar thoughts had been invading his mind ever since that morning when John had woken up in the detective's bed after accidentally falling asleep in it, coming face-to-face with a rather concerned-looking Sherlock just inches away.

Before John could change his mind, he ran his fingertips lightly over Sherlock's smooth cheek.

John found that his sense of touch was the most peculiar out of his other five senses. It was the most sensitive, and unlike the others it wasn't just placed in one particular place – it was all over. He had been lying in bed one morning studying the pads of his fingertips, calloused from the use of guns and such. His own skin was rough and worn from the sun, but still managed to be very sensitive in some areas.

But Sherlock's skin was completely opposite of his. His fingers looked extremely tan against the white skin of the detective's, and rather than looking tough, it was soft and velvety.

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><p>The next time John was able to feel Sherlock's skin against his own, was during dinner at Angelo's. The two men were seated in their usual spot near the window, a small candle burning in the middle of the table, and the night sky shrouded with clouds outside. They had just solved a three-day long case, and after a whole night of running around the town of London without the help of cabs or such, John was craving a big plate of pasta.<p>

Said plate of pasta was currently placed in front of him, half-eaten, with a still-hungry John eating away at it. It was the only food he had actually taken in since that morning, not including the bag of crisps Sherlock had practically thrown at him while at Scotland Yard.

John took a sip of water and glanced briefly at the man across from him. Sherlock had his elbows placed on the table; fingers threaded together with his chin perched on top of them. A small smile touched his lips. "Feeling better?"

A soft laugh escaped the doctor's lips as he nodded. "Yes. I don't see how you can go even a full day without food."

Sherlock rolled his pale eyes. "Oh please, John. There are more important things than food and sleep, you know this."

"Mmm. Right." John shoved another forkful of spaghetti in his mouth then.

The detective laughed a little and John looked up. "What?"

Sherlock looked rather amused as he leaned forward carefully. John watched as he reached out a hand and wiped sauce away from the corner of the doctor's lips. "Sher-" The detective's thumb ghosted over John's bottom lip softly.

"You had…sauce…on your face." Sherlock mumbled, leaning back into his seat while wiping his hand on a napkin. If John didn't know any better, he could notice a faint blush on the pale cheeks.

John felt heat creep up his neck. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thanks."

Little did he know he would stay up for hours that night replaying the action over and over in his head until he could not stand it a second longer – the way their eyes had connected for a split moment, the way Sherlock's pupils grew just a fraction of a centimeter larger as they flickered to the doctor's lips.

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><p><em>I was surrounded by crimson drapes. Beautiful and luscious, the color stood out against the black granite floor beneath my two steady feet. I hadn't the faintest idea why the drapes were here, but my mind was completely focused on the beauty instead of the how and why of the situation.<em>

_Reaching out, my fingers barely brushed the drapes. They began to quiver, and the line between my brow increased as the quivering did not stop. _

_Without a warning, the drapes transformed into thick liquid and it cascaded to the floor, gushing around my body. The air was suddenly filled with a pungent, disgusting smell. After a few moments, I then realized it was the smell of blood. _

_Horror filled my once peaceful being and the words that came from my own mouth echoed extremely loud around me._

"_Sherl…my best friend, Sherlock Holmes…is dead."_

"_Sherlock!"_

"_God, no."_

"_-the best man-"_

"_One more miracle, Sherlock-"_

"_-stop this. Just stop it."_

_My words were drowned by a deeper, stronger voice then. "John!" Where was it coming from? The thick blood was up to my neck now and I gasped. "John!"_

"John!"

John woke with a start, gasping for air as if he was drowning, as if he had just run five miles. He sat up quickly, only to knock heads with another. A strangled cry shot out from his lips as pain exploded throughout his skull. He flopped back on his pillows.

A throaty laugh came from at the end of the bed. "My apologies – I should have been more careful upon waking you from a nightmare."

John's fingers grasped the lamp on his bedside table and flicked it on. The faint light filled the dark room.

Sherlock sat perched on top of the covers, eyeing John with curiosity. His blue robe hung from one shoulder. "I did not know you still had nightmares, John."

"Erm…not…not often…" John murmured with embarrassment. It was a lie, of course. John probably had a nightmare every other night. At least it wasn't as bad as it used to be.

A troubled expression was cast across Sherlock's features, and his eyebrows knitted together in concentration. He lowered his gaze to the bed. "I'm not going anywhere, John. I'm here. I'm alive."

"I.." John's voice caught. "I know."

Their eyes met. Sherlock did not look convinced, and John didn't feel convinced either. He was afraid that one day, maybe he would wake up and all of this would just be another one of his nightmares. That maybe he had gone insane and started to hallucinate.

John watched as the consulting detective stood up, only to take the place squarely in front of John. Sherlock's pajama-clothed knees touched John's bare ones, causing the latter one's heart to increase in speed. It was beating so loudly that he was afraid Sherlock might hear it. "Sher-"

"John." Sherlock's voice sounded strong and determined. In response, John looked up at the man, their eyes once again locking into place with each other. He continued to speak. "I am here." The detective's fingers wrapped around John's and he led them to the place on his wrist.

John's throat tightened, feeling the strong and much-beating pulse there. His eyes flickered down and then back up at Sherlock's face. He was at loss for words. All he could do was give a nod as the heat in his face increased.

A smile spread across Sherlock's lips. "I'm here. I'll always be here. The next time I die, it'll be for real." He said softly.

The place where their skin connected burned hotly and sent a shiver throughout John's body. "You bet it will be." He replied in a small whisper, his heart tightening in adoration for this man in front of him.

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><p><strong>TBC<strong>

********Review if convenient, if not convenient review anyways~********

********(please, please, please!)


	5. Taste

**AN: **First of all - MAJOR apologies are needed on my behalf for taking so long on getting this chapter up. But I'm glad you lovely reviewers have endured! I'm so thankful.

Second of all - last chapter! I've adored this fic, and I'm so proud of it. I'm thankful for each and every review, alert, and favorite. I cannot stop thanking you guys for that. I love you guys.

Third - this chapter IS titled "Taste", so the obvious will be coming if you did not get that hint earlier on. I have to admit this chapter is less angsty than the last ones and more gushy and 'awww'. I'm sorry to those I disappoint.

And I will shut up now!

So enjoy this _**freaking long chapter**_.

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><p>.oOo.<p>

_I didn't want to believe it – no, it all seemed like a bad dream. A horrid, disgusting nightmare. Even the gravestone set squarely in front of me, burrowed into the grass-covered ground with that exquisite name engraved upon it in bold letters, looked like a figment of my imagination. It didn't feel real to me. It felt like a scam – a fake._

_Swallowing the lump forming inside my tight throat, I attempted to clear it, my eyes locking once again on the stone that so insisted to mock me. "Um…hm. You…you told me once…that you weren't a hero." I took a long, deep breath. "Um. There were times I didn't even think you were human. But…let me tell you this – you were…the best man..ah…the most human," I felt my throat tightening up again. "-human being that I've ever known. And no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so…" I licked my lips. "There."_

_I was supposed to feel accomplished, wasn't I? Now that I had said those words? Now that I had let lose all the things that I wanted to tell him that I never got the chance to?_

_No of course I wasn't. I didn't feel any better than I had been on the drive here. If it was possible, I felt worse._

_My fingertips gently touched the cold stone in front of me and it hit me then like a punch to the stomach. This was all real – it wasn't a bad dream (as much as I hoped it to be). This. Was. Real._

_I willed my feet to carry myself away from that horrid grave, clenching and unclenching my left hand as I did so. Dread settled over my entire body – but being the soldier I am, I turned around just as fast as I had left the grave, facing it once again. "There's just one more thing…one more…thing. One more miracle, Sherlock. For me." I shook my head. _

"_Don't…be…dead."_

_Bile rose up from the depths of my stomach and my voice raised a couple of octaves while I forced the rest of the words from my mouth. I licked my lips, but the taste was foreign to me. I would usually taste a faint hint of salt or maybe the leftover traces of tea. It had seemed as though my body was betraying me – shutting down. _

_After all, a heart without a brain is useless, right?_

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><p>Little did the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes know that John's overall experiment was almost done and finished with. Mind you, the doctor was able to keep it hidden in the very, very corner of his mind while conducting the mini-experiments. He couldn't take all the credit though – John was doing this whole experiment on mostly instinct and such. Until now, he hadn't really considered it an <em>actual<em> process of breaking down the information and deducing it. But after some thought – yes, yes he had been experimenting. Sherlock might have been proud, if he knew. He didn't though, and John was apt to keep it that way.

In a way, the basic five senses of his body had taken over – a way to prove to his own brain that Sherlock was real, and that he was truly back for good. Hearing, of course was the first and foremost, obviously. Next were sight, smell, and touch.

"John, you're attempting to sort out your thoughts, I can tell. What's bothering you?" Sherlock's voice drawled from the kitchen. He was bent over his microscope, eyes still completely focused on whatever he was observing from the most recent case at hand.

In a quick (too quick?) response, the doctor cleared his throat. "It's nothing." He stood up and made his way across the room. A cuppa sounded nice right about now – something to clear his head and calm the bundled nerves that threatened to burst at a second's notice.

The detective didn't buy it, of course, but his focus remained steady on his experiment, mumbling a faint _"hm" _before once again drifting off into the depths of his mind, completely ignoring John.

It was absolutely fine, John thought as he continued making a cuppa. It just allowed him to venture further into his own thoughts.

The five senses, yes. He had trudged through four and already it felt more and more real that his consulting detective was back. Wait. Hang on a second. _His_ consulting detective? When had he officially started to claim the other man as his own? A faint blush colored his face and he shook the ridiculous notions away. Sherlock was _not _his. And probably never would be, sadly.

Hang on again. _Sadly_? So he was hoping beyond hope that someday he could claim the detective as his own?

A long sigh interrupted the deep questions John was asking himself, and with a quick glance up he saw Sherlock staring at him intently. A look of annoyance was etched onto his features. "You're thinking too much. Would you mind doing it in the other room if you continue to insist on doing so?"

John licked his lips nervously and stirred his now-finished tea. "Fine. Do you want some?" He spluttered. "Tea! Tea I mean! Would you like some tea?" God, what was wrong with him?

A teasing smile touched the detective's lips as he suddenly took the cup from the doctor's own hands. Ignoring John's futile attempt to stop his actions, Sherlock took a sip only to hand it back immediately after. "Just a bit is good. I can't drink tea while working, remember?" His attention shifted from John to his microscope again.

John, however, was standing there with his cup looking like he had just been watching something extremely forbidden. His cheeks were now a rosy crimson shade, lips were pursed tightly together, and for some reason he couldn't take his eyes off that spot on his cup. For a moment he wondered whether he should just throw it in the sink – it was only one cuppa right? He could make another!

Somehow a rather frazzled John had made his way into the sitting room and settled down onto his comfortable and familiar arm chair, the cup still firmly placed in his two hands. The cup was tormenting him, urging him to press his own lips to the same side Sherlock's lips had just been.

Oh, for God's sake. It was just a cup!

And with that thought imprinted in his head, John took a gulp of the tea, only to forget it was extremely hot which ended up him choking on it a bit.

Was that mint toothpaste he tasted?

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><p>"John, please. It's for an experiment."<p>

"Why don't you just experiment _on your own damn self_?"

"The calculations and the conclusion would be hardly the same! I have to do this test on another human being."

"So I'm going to be a test subject - _your_ test subject?"

"Only for five minutes, John."

John tightly pursed his thin lips while assessing the consulting detective standing in front of him, the pale eyes practically pleading with him to allow such a ridiculous thing to take place. Of course, Sherlock did not think of it as ridiculous or embarrassing – he was only thinking scientifically. And why the hell couldn't John also think along those lines? No, instead it made the back of his neck grow hot. But as always, he complied. "Fine. Aren't you going to put on latex gloves though?"

Sherlock responded with an impatient roll of his eyes. "No, that would obviously tamper with the results. I actually need to do this with my own fingers."

John's face once again heated up at those words. If a random outsider was listening in to those certain words, a whole range of situations would most likely pop into their imaginable mind – how embarrassing! Before he could process another thought though, Sherlock leaned forward and touched John's bottom lip with his bare thumb, stopping his mind altogether. "Open your mouth, John."

The doctor obeyed and Sherlock slipped his index finger over the other man's tongue. John squeezed his eyes shut, his mind now racing with gibberish thoughts while his body grew incredibly warm.

It was for an experiment – definitely and solely for an experiment – so why was John getting all hot and bothered over such a little thing? Sherlock was obviously processing the information, storing it away, and not thinking at all about what it was doing to his poor blogger.

"Ah! Brilliant! This is called the median sulcus." Sherlock mumbled, running the tip of his finger along the middle of John's tongue. "It divides the convex dorsum of the tongue into symmetrical halves. And these-"

John heard Sherlock rattle off information, but the doctor clearly wasn't taking any of it in or processing any thought going through his head at the moment. All he could focus on entirely was the fact that Sherlock's fingers were roaming around on his tongue. Obviously the detective had washed his hands beforehand, but the taste was…well, John didn't know how to describe it. He tasted a hint of soap, yes, but there was more. It was just…_Sherlock_. The taste of Sherlock.

"-and this is the apex of the tongue." Sherlock said, and John noted his voice was much lower than it usually was as he ran his thumb along the tip of John's tongue. "Interesting."

John opened his eyes and was met with the full-force stare of the green eyes he knew so well. Sherlock was analyzing his every move: every flicker of eye movement – every blush that rose to the doctor's cheeks – every twitch of his fingers that were tightly threaded together in his own lap.

Sherlock removed his fingers from John's mouth and at an agonizing slow pace traced them over John's lips then.

John was completely entranced, watching the flutter of movement behind those gorgeous eyes in front of him. He saw Sherlock taking in all the details, even the simple ones. The doctor was beyond the stage of blushing – no, now he was burning up with a light sheen of sweat trailing across his back. He felt lightheaded. A faint shudder made its way through his tense body. What made it worse was that John could feel Sherlock's hot breath on his own face, lips just inches away from his own. Perhaps if he leaned forward just a bit…

And suddenly he was met with a rush of air as Sherlock stood up quickly, taking a couple of long strides backwards. "Well, I think I've gathered an adequate amount of information. Thank you that is all I need, John." The detective looked flustered and quite confused as he shoved his arms into his coat.

John felt dejected, and flushed now with embarrassment instead of arousal. "W-Where…uhm…where are you going?"

Sherlock avoided his gaze while tugging on his gloves quickly. "Scotland Yard. You don't have to come – I have no further need of you. Don't wait up." And with his coat trailing along behind his heels, the consulting detective had left the flat completely.

John sunk down further into his armchair, biting at his bottom lip nervously. Had he made him mad? No, John knew what Sherlock was like when he was mad – and that was definitely not anger. That was…anxiety maybe? Confusion? That fit more with the symptoms, but not with Sherlock's character. Sherlock was never anxious or confused. He always knew precisely what was going on and why.

The worn out Watson ran a hand over his face, letting out a frustrated groan. And what about what _he _was feeling at the moment? It was like a hurricane had met a tornado, ripping up his insides and splashing them around everywhere while doing so. This experiment definitely proved one thing for him though – he obviously had feelings for his flat mate. How deep those feelings ran though, John had no idea.

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><p>Exactly three days passed and John was almost fed up with the silence coming from his best friend. He was used to a couple of hours of complete nothing while Sherlock was on the couch buried deep in his mind palace, but not this. This was just horrible. All the detective said was the basic 'yes' or 'no', and even then he would not make complete eye contact. Whenever John would try and talk to him about the matter, Sherlock would immediately just leave the flat and end up not coming back late that night.<p>

But tonight, no, John was going to stay up as late as possible. Sherlock was being a five-year old about the whole situation. They desperately _needed_ to talk about what had happened because apparently it was more than an experiment to the detective if he was acting this way.

John was sitting in the common room when the downstairs door opened and closed quietly. He could hear Sherlock shuffle as silent as possible up the stairs and then turn the door knob slowly. When opening the door, he obviously did not expect the doctor to still be up at one in the morning waiting – so when Sherlock glanced up, he froze when their eyes met.

"Sherlock." John said as he stood up. "We need to talk."

To John's surprise though, Sherlock just gave a long sigh and threw his coat on the couch. "There is nothing to talk about, John. Nothing has happened, correct? Why haven't you already gone to bed, it's one in the morning-"

"Oh, don't play dumb. We both know it doesn't suit you." John snapped.

Sherlock visibly swallowed and shifted from one foot to another. "I…don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh really now? Don't tell me that little _experiment_ of yours didn't affect you the way it affected me."

"It didn't."

John felt a stab of pain in his gut. "But I thought…"

"You obviously thought wrong, John. As always. It was an experiment, a test, nothing more. I've long forgotten about it. Why I've been silent the last three days? The case, John. The _case_. Did you think you were so special that I would have been troubled by just _you_ these past days? It seems you have forgotten who I am. Just drop the matter and leave it be." Sherlock muttered, raising his chin a fraction of an inch.

With his eyes now locked onto the floor beneath his feet, John licked his lips and swallowed the rising lump in his throat. His heart constricted at those words, but Sherlock was right. Why should he have expected any more from the high-function sociopath? John cleared his throat loudly. "Erm…right…" His shoulders sagged a bit. "Goodnight, then."

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><p>"<em>I don't have friends. I've just got one."<em>

"_I was so alone and I owe you so much."_

"_Goodbye John."_

"_My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."_

"…_I've just got one."_

"_Sherlock!"_

John awoke with a start and gasped, sitting up quickly. He felt his best friend's name almost slip from his lips, but he forced it back with a bite of his tongue. Willing his fast-paced heart to slow down, John leaned forward with his face in his hands. The nightmares were lessening now – only once a week.

"John?"

The man in question sighed. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Go back downstairs." Instead of hearing retreating footsteps though, John glanced up when the footsteps came towards him. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed beside him. "Sherlock…"

"I'm sorry, John. Forgive me."

"For what?" asked John incredulously.

"For lying to you earlier. I didn't mean a word of what I said."

John licked his lips. "But-"

"John, clearly emotions and such are not my area of expertise. But one thing I do know of – is that you are the only person who has ever come this close to me." Sherlock let out a laugh. "And it frightens me a bit." Their eyes met. "But you mean a lot to me, that is for sure. Maybe more than I let on."

John's cheeks flushed and he was glad for the darkness in the room. He looked at Sherlock, then. Really looked at him. The moonlight outlined his face gorgeously, enhancing the sharp cheekbones and contours of his face, his pupils were fully blown, and a small smile played on the lips carved so beautifully.

John Watson was in love.

He reached out and carefully traced Sherlock's jaw line, placing his palm against the other man's cheek. "No doubt you've already deduced my feelings." He whispered as he leaned forward a little, allowing the tips of their noses to softly graze each other.

"Obviously." Sherlock whispered back.

John did not know who leaned forward in that moment, or who pressed their lips to the other's first, or who let out a contented sigh. All he knew was that it was a perfect sensation to have Sherlock Holmes' lips moving against his own. John's hand was in the mess of dark curls while the other stayed upon his cheek, thumb running along the velvety skin. Sherlock didn't quite know what to do at first, but soon his hands were latched behind John's neck, pressing them both into each other even more. All he could taste and feel was Sherlock.

A shudder through John in that second and he felt Sherlock smirk against his lips at the reaction, pulling back a bit. John felt the hotness of breath on his own skin as Sherlock bent his head, pressing his lips to a soft spot upon John's neck, sucking and biting. "Sherlock…" his name came out as more of a groan than anything else, and it made his skin grow even hotter.

Sherlock had somehow managed to lean over John so much that they had fallen back onto the pillows and blankets, though his mouth was still roaming over the other's skin. John squeezed his eyes shut, relishing the feeling of – _oh, God_ was that his tongue? Their mouths started to slide over each other again in an instant, and John wondered how the hell Sherlock could have so much experience in kissing. It was fantastic and alluring. It was perfection in the whole sense of the word. It was-

Sherlock pulled away and sat up suddenly. John groaned in protest, opening his eyes. "What's wrong?"

The detective stared down at him with an amused expression, hair mussed from John's practically pulling and tugging at it, chest bare – when had he lost his shirt in the process? "I think…if we go any farther, neither of us will be able to control ourselves."

"What makes you think that?" John said as his lungs tried to find more air.

Sherlock shifted a bit on top of the doctor's hips where he was sitting and John's eyes fluttered close as he bit back a small moan.

"That is why, my dear Watson." And he captured the other's lips in a sweet-savoring kiss.

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><p>One would think that it was a happily-ever-after from this moment on, John thought as he lay curled up in the faint morning light with his flat mate. One would also probably think their problems ended here and that everything would be easy and such after this.<p>

No, John knew this wasn't true. This was just the beginning of a much long-endured emotional process for the both of them. Were they lovers now? John had no idea. Boyfriends? For Heaven's sake, _no. _The word alone did not suit the two. But best friends? Yes. Definitely yes. They were two halves of a whole and in no dire need of a title as far as the two were concerned. John was just glad that the consulting detective was back for good, he decided while smiling into the bare skin of Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock Holmes was still a high-functioning sociopath that relied on cases and such for his sanity.

And John Watson was still the faithful blogger who tagged along and kept his best friend in line when needed.

And that's all that mattered.

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><p><strong>FIN**

**Review if convenient, if not convenient review anyways~**

(because a ton of you lovely people out there have alerted this - a TON. And I would love to hear your feedback and thoughts, my darlings.)

Thank you all again for reading! ;) Hope you've enjoyed this as much as I loved writing it!

-JM


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